


Letters in Lamplight and Potato-Peel Pie

by abi_the_android_sent_by_cyberlife (got_vexmilk)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, Author!Connor, I promise the connor/gavin is brief (ish), It Gets Better and Then It Gets Worse, Jericrew, Multi, book clubs, loosely based of a book, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:01:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/got_vexmilk/pseuds/abi_the_android_sent_by_cyberlife
Summary: The Year is 1946. Connor Anderson, under the pseudonym Izzy Bickerstaff, has just gotten his big break as an author. The only problem is, he hates the story he's telling. Until one day, he gets a letter from one Markus Manfred about a copy of Charles Lamb's Tales of Shakespear, and the two begin a correspondence. This is how Connor learns of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.





	1. Prologue - The War affects Everyone

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh this is officially my first fic for the DBH fandom!! I just watched the Netflix movie of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and I had a lot of feelings, so they turned into this! Huge thanks to everyone in the New ERA discord for all the support while I was writing this!!!
> 
> This Au very loosely follows The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Anne Shaffer. I had to make some plot things make sense, and not all the characters fit right, hence the adjustments. Also for some fairly obvious reasons, this isn't going to be 100% historically accurate on account of I don't feel like making the period-typical homophobia a plot point.

"Mr. Anderson sir, what's the best part about being a writer?" 

Connor let out a breathy laugh and decided to throw this little bookshop for a loop. "Well, you see, it’s absolutely the best job in the world. You’re sitting, indoors, and always near a teapot!" His audience reacted exactly how he wanted them to, chuckling along with him. It clearly was a smart decision, as his publisher threw him a wink and a thumbs up from the back row. He had clearly charmed several of the old ladies who had the misfortune of deciding to come to the bookshop in the middle of a failed author’s speaking engagement. 

 

“Really though, the best part of being a writer is that I do things like this. It is, of course,  really something to discover an amazing story like the one that I have here in my latest book” Connor makes a sweeping gesture towards the shelves stacked full with the latest novel he didn’t give a single flying  _ shit  _ about,  _ Izzy Bickerstaff Goes To War.  _  “Just like anything else, it has its ups and downs, I suppose. My first book,  _ A Critical Biography of Anne Bronte,  _ sold only,” _ a pause, _ “ How many copies Hank?” Connor raised his voice slightly, even though he knew Hank was readily listening for his cue. They had rehearsed this many times. “Everyone, my publisher and father, Hank Anderson.” 

 

Hank cleared his throat slightly, another facet of their little song-and-dance routine. “Twenty-eight.”  _ and pause for effect,  _ “A-hem. Worldwide.”  _ And just like that, they all think this is a success story.  _

 

“And are you working on another book, Mr. Anderson?”  _ Thank God.  _ For once, there was a question that Connor didn’t see coming. He was almost caught a little off guard.    
  
Almost. 

 

“Not at the moment. If you are absolutely desperate for new writings, I have written a series of essays and articles for the  _ Times _ of late. The next one is going to be in next month’s issue, on the subject of the importance of reading.” 

 

“We all look forward to reading it, and whatever else comes next. Thank you for coming today, Mr. Anderson.” 

 

_ Finally, it’s over,  _ “Thank you for having me. It’s been an absolute pleasure.” 

……..

 

“Well, that was painful.”    
  


“Yea, only because it worked so well.” Connor snorted, staring out the bus window. Hank sat beside him, shuffling papers as usual. 

 

“My God, Hank! Look” Connor gasped, pointing at where a man worked on painting the front door of his flat a bright, robin’s egg blue. “Fresh paint,” he sighed, “It’s almost like it the war really is over.” 

 

“It’s been almost a year since the Germans surrendered and it still seems like London is barely standing.” Hank couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face at the sight of his son, attention totally captured by the bright blue miracle. “At least they’ve let the children come back.” 

 

At long last, they arrived at the flat Connor was supposed to look at. The place was beautiful, really, and the landlord was incredibly excited to meet him. 

 

“It’s really a tremendous novel, Mr. Anderson! One might just say that Izzy Bickerstaff is the reason you’re first on the list!” Connor could only manage his polite ‘ _ I really don’t want to deal with you’  _ smile on the way up the stairs, and even that vanished upon opening the door. 

 

It was too much. 

 

When he opened the door, instead of seeing the gorgeous flat the landlord had promised him, all he could see was his old flat.

 

_ Connor knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the door. Instead of his wonderful office, his happy place,  all he could see was the light slate grey of the London sky. There were no walls. Barely a ceiling. His desk was barely teetering on the edge of the splintered floorboards. If he had been feeling whimsical, Connor would have the urge to say that it seemed a giant creature had taken a bite out of the building.  _

 

_ Connor was not feeling whimsical.  _

 

_ He spared the walls of the apartment a cursory glance; anything that had hung on the wall had been obliterated by the impact of the bomb, the only things that were spared were what had been sitting on the desk. As he stood there and watched, the last few pages of his manuscript were lifted from where they sat by the gentle hands of the breeze and taken away. He didn’t know how long he had been standing there, but then he saw it. _

 

_ The picture. The one picture of he had of his parents. His ‘real’ parents. The ones who brought him into the world.  He needed it. The frame was broken, but it didn’t matter; the image was intact. Connor felt himself stepping forward more than he really thought about the action.  _

 

_ Another step. _

 

_ The floorboards creaked beneath him. Somewhere in his mind, He knew that the floor would not support him. He knew this was beyond irrational, this was stupid and dangerous.  _

 

_ Another step.  _

 

_ There were just a few feet between him and the desk. Connor felt himself being pitched forward slightly. The floor was giving way. Too late now.  _

  
  


_ The final step.  _

 

_ “Connor!” he heard Hank’s voice right as he grabbed the broken frame from the surface, and moments later a pair of arms were around his waist. _

 

_ Connor let out a broken cry as father and son collapsed onto the floorboards of the hallway. Even though he knew they were safe, he made no attempt to bring himself back onto his feet. In an uncharacteristic moment of weakness and true, bone-crushing sorrow, he let himself cry into his surrogate father's chest.  _

 

_ "It's all gone. Gone." _

 

_ "I know," Hank simply stroked Connors back, "I know, son." _

 

“-onnor?! You alright son?” Connor shook his head slightly as if to dispel that awful memory again.    
  
“I’m-” Connor took a breath to refocus.“I’m fine.” He would focus on touring this wonderfully lovely flat, and not the fact he didn’t have anything to fill it with, other than a shitty typewriter and his thoughts. 

 

“Aye, jus’ a bought of shell shock!” The landlord’s cheery cockney accent and hearty laugh resonated through the beautiful but very empty, very lonely flat. Its sound made something very clear.  

 

Connor could not live here. 

 

“Thank you for the tour,” Connor abruptly interjected into the conversation a few moments later “I will certainly keep this place on my list to consider, but I think I have a few more houses to look at. Right, Hank?” Connor looked at his father, a ghost of a pleading look spelled across his features. 

 

Hank thankfully took the hint. “Oh, that’s right. We better get going son, or we’re gonna miss that other showing!” He wasted no time in taking Connor by the arm and leading him out the door of the flat. 

……..

“It really was a nice house. It could be a home.”    
  
Connor looked up at Hank, arching a delicate brow. “You’re right. It could be a home.”  Hank didn’t respond in the brief silence, knowing the other shoe would have to drop. “Just not for me.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor goes to a party, and a strange letter arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again loves! So sorry for the long wait, but classes started up again and it kinda hit me like a truck! I do plan to update more regularly from here on out, so stay on the lookout! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped out in the New ERA discord server, particularly those of you that put up with doing 18 Word Wars in a row with me so I could get this chapter finished!

Connor hates parties.

 

But he goes to them anyway.

 

He goes because parties are not only Gavin’s favorite pastime but part of his job description as a diplomat. And Connor makes for excellent arm candy.

 

Tonight is nothing different, Connor hangs back in the corner of the low-lit dance hall, swaying just slightly to the music while Gavin made his rounds. He had been given a momentary reprieve from being paraded around as Gavin's "Author Boyfriend," and he intends to hold on to it. He really does enjoy watching Gavin at these things, all charm and practically glowing, even in the dim atmosphere of the gathering.

 

"So, I hear Sir Bookworm made the best-sellers list? That's definitely something." A voice to his left startles Connor out of his reverie. One of Gavin's old buddies, Connor couldn't place his name. Wilson maybe?

"They're calling it a triumph." Connor murmured bitterly over the edge of his glass as he downed the last of his Manhattan.

"You don't seem very triumphant." Maybe-Wilson smirked over the edge of his own glass, "I would offer to buy you a drink, but the man of the hour's made it very clear that you're with him." Connor followed his gaze to where Gavin was talking and smiling with another guest. "You should ask him to dance."

"I am-" Connor hesitates, "not good at dancing." From the stage, the band switches songs to a more upbeat tune, and Connor, struck by an impulse,  strides back to the bar to order another Manhattan.

"And where are you off to?" Connor spares one more glance at Maybe-Wilson.

"To go ask my goddamn boyfriend if I may have this fucking dance!"

The truth of the matter was, Connor didn't like the way Maybe-Wilson had raised his eyebrows at Connor and implied things when he told him to ask Gavin to dance. Connor didn't like the fact that he assumed he knew Connor and Gavin better than Connor when he couldn't even be memorable enough for his name to take root in Connor's mind. And maybe the bartender had been awful nice to him and made Connor's drink a little strong, but he was overcome with the need to prove to everyone at this goddamn party that he was happy with his partner.

 

So he traipsed over to Gavin, grabbed him by the wrist from whatever conversation he was having, and started toward the dance floor.

 

“Dance with me.”

 

“Well, _this_ is new.”

 

“Is it a crime for a man to want to dance?”   


“Someone pissed you off, didn’t they?” Gavin’s comment was accompanied by that sly smile that gave away the fact that he just knew Connor’s habits too well. And yet he still allowed Connor to lead him onto the dance floor and into the flurry of bodies and motion.

 

On the floor, Connor remembered that he had told that man the truth.

He leaned into Gavin's ear. "I don't really know how to dance."

 

“Just-” Gavin’s response came on the wind of a breathy chuckle, “Just follow my lead.”

 

So Connor let himself be led around the dance floor, trying to keep up with Gavin’s elaborate footwork. As the song went on, he found himself smiling. He was almost sad when the song was over and the band transitioned to a slower tune.

 

But then he tripped over Gavin’s foot again and he was no longer sad, instead, he was grateful for the change of pace.  

 

As they slowed down, Gavin whispered in Connors' ear again. “I should’ve known the only reason you’d come dance is out of spite.”

 

“Gavin, you really shouldn't dwell on that. All that matters is that I’m dancing, right?”

 

“Whatever you say, doll.” Connor bit back a grin at Gavin’s words. Instead, he pulled him a little closer so he couldn't see it. 

  


….

 

There was a letter on Connor’s desk when he sat down to write that day. It wasn’t the standard stationery that most other letters that passed his desk arrived in, but a heavy, thick paper the color of too-old bananas. Connor turned the envelope over in his hands, untying the rough twine that secured the opening, and peered inside.

 

The envelope contained a handwritten letter addressed to him by his real name, rather than the usual “Izzy Bickerstaff” fan letters he had received since his publication.  

 

“Connor,” the letter read, “My name is Markus Manfred, and I live on an island called Guernsey, which you have most likely never heard of. I seemed to have stumbled upon a copy of Steven Witherton’s ‘Tales of Shakespeare’ that you once owned, and I decided that I must write to you about it. It was a wonderful book, and if I am correct, this letter finds its way to you, and you do decide to respond, I would love to discuss it in depth.

 

However, I have written to you in a slightly selfish context. You see, there are no real bookshops on this island, and I haven’t been able to find anyone else on the mainland that would possibly be open to my request. I am in need of a good book.”

 

Connor almost laughed out loud upon reading. The rest of the letter detailed the logistics of Markus’s clearly well thought out plan, and it suddenly hit him that the author of this letter had absolutely no idea who he was writing to. He remembered reading the book Markus had mentioned, but he would’ve donated it long ago, before the war, before Izzy-motherfucking-Bickerstaff ever even existed.

 

It was an addicting notion.

 

Connor picked up his pen before he even fully thought out what he was going to say. He moved the rest of his mail to the side.

  
  


“Dear Markus,

  


I was so glad to find your letter on my desk this morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally get to meet Markus!!
> 
> For those of you who have read/seen the source material for this fic, from this point onwards is where things really diverge from the original works. I wasn't kidding when I said "loosely based". That being said, my adjustments to the plot are mainly to help the characters of Detroit work better in this context, rather than shoving them into a role. 
> 
> // come scream with me on tumblr! @abionbroadway

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on Tumblr! @abionbroadway


End file.
